


The Point of the Point

by Heyerette



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, Emotionally Constipated Thorin, Fluff, I'm Sorry, M/M, One-Shot, Plot What Plot, Romance, exasperated hobbits, long sentence constructions, possibly crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 11:57:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1132368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heyerette/pseuds/Heyerette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo Baggins was fuming.</p><p>Bilbo Baggins had had enough.</p><p>Bilbo Baggins was going to take the dwarf and use his rock of a furry chest as a pin cushion for when the knitting mood should strike him again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Point of the Point

**Author's Note:**

> Uhm, yes ... hello! 
> 
> I promised myself, quite some time ago, that I would never attempt any of the like again. I am no writer. I cannot do "serious" if my life should depend on it. As you will see. I don´t know where this came from and I don´t know what I´m doing, really, but as long as you don´t expect a proper plot and have a fondness for overly long sentences and absurdities you´ll be alright. I think. Hope. 
> 
> This was born out of the blue 2 days ago and I´d like to dedicate it to a handful of lovely people who have been offering encouragement, support, distraction and hugs during these past few months, when all of it was very much needed. Since I can´t furnish you all with mini cheesecakes consider this a hug from me to you! I hope it makes you smile. Or something. <3
> 
> On a side note - please note that English is not my first language and that this is largely unbeta-d. Any mistakes are mine.
> 
> ~ ~ ~ ~

„Bilbo.“

Small hands went onto hips. 

„No.“

Oh, but this was not helping. Not in the least. Curse the halfling for – _No_. Well, yes, but that was beside the point. Not that there was any point. In fact, he had found himself beyond the point that was the point long ago. At Beorn´s, surely. Possibly on top of that blasted Carrock. After having been chewed on by an overgrown excuse of a decidedly ill-favoured – Mahal, the _stench_! - puppy and waking to find his inexplicably, infernally suicidal saviour - But he was so soft and – _NO_. 

He straightened. He was _King_ , it was his _duty_ to ascertain that members of his erstwhile Company were adequately provided for. His _right_. And he was going to exercise the same right and Mahal help him, no however stubborn, affronted, furiously adorable hobbit who was _leaving_ him would be allowed to –

And he was going to be understood. Clearly. Unmistakably. In that precise tone of voice that was known to instantly inspire his sister-sons into what could, on the whole, pass as a tolerable semblance of compliance. Or retreat. Yes. That. Which was, upon consideration, the more preferable outcome. Usually. For the ever persistently present throbbing in his head when suffering prolonged exposure to their inanities, that was. But they were good boys. At heart. Or so he was consistently being told. Smilingly. Insistently. By the small, gentle, warm, curly-haired creature currently standing there, in his private refuge, glaring daggers at him; impossibly soft, small hands forming resolute fists on wide, inviting – 

He could not possibly cover his mouth with a fist. Nor bite it. He was King. Of Erebor. And of the Line of Durin. Balin would have a fit. 

„Master Baggins -“

„ _No_.“

Or perhaps he could. 

Or close his eyes. Briefly. For but a little moment. But then he would very likely miss – 

He sighed, inwardly, resisting any so undwarfish an inclination. There were matters at hand. Matters. Of grave import. That needed to be dealt with. Rather sooner than later. Durin knew he did not care to deal with them to begin with. But this obstinate, little -

Narrowing his eyes, he prepared himself once more, mastering not only himself; no small feat, given the temptation before him, as it were; but also the resoluteness in his address. Besides, no-one had ever said he was not allowed to growl. Or at least not to his person. And even if they did, there was always Dwalin. That usually did the trick. Perhaps not always on his - 

„ _Hobbit._ “

He felt no small pride in his communication skills. Short and to the point. Mahal´s hammer, the point again. Was there even a point in coming back to the point all the time? He had made it very plainly, painfully clear that - 

Ah. There it was. That Elven-cursed, confounded, insufferably cute – the hobbit should be forbidden to exhibit it around the king; he had half a mind to glare his council into passing a law at the next session that would stop the abominable halfl-

„ _Ass_.“

\- _what_?

* * * * * *

Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King under the Mountain, Reclaimer of Erebor, Ruler over the Arkenstone, possessor of so fierce a glare, deep a voice and majestic a bearing as had been known to reduce many a visitor to the slowly but surely flourishing kingdom into awed submission – none would go so far as to owning to any shaking in boots, dwarven-make or otherwise -

Blinked.

* * * * * *

Bilbo Baggins was fuming.

Bilbo Baggins had had enough.

Bilbo Baggins was going to take the dwarf and use his rock of a furry chest as a pin cushion for when the knitting mood should strike him again. He was going to lure him to the Shire, lock him into the second best guest room at Bag End and invite Peony Cotton, Myrtle Proudfoot, Primrose Took _and_ little Ivy Burrows to a cosy, very much pink tea party which would involve the dedicated, persistent and decidedly unbecoming and uncoordinated braiding of said dwarf´s unfairly striking mane, grey streaks and all – unapologetically. And there would be flowers involved. Eru help him – there would be flowers. And if the dwarf should as much as dare to attempt to pluck even one of petals out of a braid should Bilbo turn his back on him only for a moment well then -

“Bilbo.”

Oh, so now he saw fit to “Bilbo” him? When it had been “Master Hobbit” and “Master Burglar” and “Master Baggins” and the occasional “Halfling” thrown into it as of late - on the increasingly rare occasions his majesty had deigned to acknowledge the hobbit´s presence in the mountain - in case his curly head should be turned by all the, well, master-ing? When all he wanted to fall from the dwarf´s lips was - 

Fool. Bilbo Baggins was a fool. 

But he wasn´t nearly fool enough to permit the dwarf king to make a spectacle of his person under the disguise of Protection. He had no need of Protection. He scoffed at the mere notion of Protection. The only Protection he wanted was - 

He was a barrel rider. A riddle solver. He had almost enjoyed a cooking session with trolls and had lived to speak of it. Well, yes, it had only stretched as far as a distantly herbal discussion but no-one needed to get into any particulars, thank you very much. He had fought spiders. Tricked elves. Even burgled them. He was very sorry with regards to that, of course, but he had been hungry! If they had fed him properly (never mind that his presence had not been exactly noted) -

And he had saved the King´s life.

Bilbo shuddered in recollection of that moment on the battlefield, Sting aglow, orcs and trolls and goblins bent on seeing the Line of Durin broken that day. 

But they had not expected the fury of a small hobbit. Fury and something that _Master Baggins_ had resolutely banished far, far back into a tiny corner of his stupidly hopeful, hopeless heart.

But that was certainly not the point now. Had never been the point. At any point. It was a pointless point. If it had ever been a point. The point at this point was that he was going home. To the Shire. To Hobbiton. To Bag End. To his lovely, cosy, roomy smial with its proper beds and his pantry and his armchair and his books and to where he would not be plagued with even the smallest accumulation of entirely too nosey, loud, manner-less, bull-headed, hairy, smelly, graceless, dearest friends of … dwarves.

* * * * * *

He had known he would leave the Mountain, eventually, of course. What would a hobbit be doing in a mountain? Grow rocks? Protect anything green from the wrath of a potentially starving dwarf? It was not that he had been invited to stay either. Indefinitely, that was. Not in as many words, he meant. (A Baggins did not merely presume. Or importune. No, he did not.) There had been a pat on the head when he mentioned journeying back to the Shire (courtesy of Dori), an axe being shoved into his unwilling hobbit hands while being dragged out to the training grounds the one time he talked about possibly adding a smallish rock garden to his decidedly un-rockish, already existing garden in Bag End (honestly, Dwalin! An _axe_?); Bifur gesturing wildly to him when – well, he supposed that _could_ have counted as an actual attempt at communication but...

He was a hobbit. A hobbit who needed words. Plain ones, preferably. Or at least puzzling ones that could, with time, dedication and concentration, be de-puzzled. But what he _did_ need was a _point_. But did anyone present him with a point? Well, if they did, it was not The Point and Bilbo Baggins had sadly found that only That One Particular Point could possibly (rather easily, he was ashamed to admit) induce him to forget all the other points that spoke in favour of his trekking back across Middle Earth to the aforementioned cosy, homely smial. But that point had not come from the direction _that point_ should have come from. And Bilbo Baggins was not going to skulk around a kingdom which was slowly being restored in the pointless hope that that pigheaded, rude, overbearing, oblivious, wonderful dwarf -

No, he´d made his preparations, had tucked the stubbornly insisting pinch in the general region of his heart firmly away to where it could not bother him – much; and had spent most of his remaining hours enclosed in Erebor´s surprisingly magnificent library, which had, rather miraculously, been one of the very few areas left largely untouched by Smaug´s wrath and ruin – retrieving delicate dusted volumes and scrolls from even dustier shelves with the help of a very determined Ori, who had seemed to take even the smallest tear or wilting on a precious work as a personal affront and had more than once grumbled, as much as it was possible for one of so gentle a nature as Ori´s to grumble, to himself about what he should have done to the beast had he been previously aware of the state some of the written treasures had been in. 

He should, of course, especially if he had had any sense of self-preservation, have left the day he had learned that his dwarves – Bilbo was unashamed of admitting to thinking of them as exactly that, in his most private of private moments – and stupidly susceptible heart - would rise again from what most had proclaimed to be their death beds.

But no, Kili, the shamelessly shameless spawn of Morgoth, had to open his big, big eyes just like _that_ \- 

And Fili, the entirely too smug, completely unapologetic traitor that he was, naturally _had_ to point out that his poor, little brother had only just been allowed to leave his sick bed for a few hours and did he not still look awfully pale and was he not in need of Proper Care and did Bilbo think it would be safe to trust his delicate health to the supervision of those rough and curt healers from the Iron Hills, well-meaning as they surely were? (Poor Oin being exhausted at this stage and the infirmary still bursting with brave, afflicted warriors in need of his superior skills!) 

And then both siblings had simultaneously and firmly, Kili miraculously revived for the moment, reminded _Mr Boggins_ of his promise to furnish them with his very special version of lemon cheesecake cupcakes – with sprinkles on top! - and surely he did not mean to merely fob them off with a recipe for poor, overworked Bombur?

Ugh.

 _Dwarves!_

It had only needed for the boys to bat their eyelashes at him.

Which brought the hobbit back to the matter – or dwarf – at hand. The dwarf with eyelashes so long and lovely the hobbit lasses in the Shire would – never mind. And he was also going to go and to not think of how strikingly blue the confounded dwarf´s eyes were, how they made him feel as if he was drowning in a sea of -

Well, he had never pretended to be the most poetic of hobbits. 

So. 

Dwarf. 

That dwarf.

His dwarf.

Oh no, no, no... not _his_. This. Yes. This. Not his. Yes. Very good, Baggins. Now he´d only have to remember that tiny, insignificant, significant detail. 

And just why did not-his-dwarf have to stand there in merely a pair of plain black trousers and a dark blue tunic, the unbuttoned top of which obscenely giving view to a most delectable collarbone? Distracting, that´s what it was! But he would not play this game, no thank you, he was a Baggins of Bag End, a proper, respectable gentle-hobbit; he would not be deterred or coaxed into submission by the sight of Thorin Oakenshield in a shameless state of undress, and if he privately thought that the precise shade of the tunic´s fabric brought out the colour in the dwarf king´s eyes even more favourably well, that was his own business and not to be minded by anyone but himself. For himself. Ever. Quite. Right. Now that that was sorted - 

The Hobbit put his hands on his hips and presented the stubborn, rudely beautiful mule of a dwarf with a most creditable version of the patented Baggins Glare. 

“No.”

* * * * * * 

He opened his mouth – only to shut it again promptly. The burglar, _his_ burglar,  had just –  
   
Blue eyes narrowed dangerously.  
   
“Oh, no, no, no; you are not giving me that look, Thorin Oakenshield!” The hobbit huffed – _huffed!_ – and waved a hand into the king’s direction, meeting his icy glare in a decidedly unimpressed fashion. And that wasn’t even the end of the impossible creature’s blatant disregard for the most common conventions when in the presence of Royalty, no. He was performing that inexplicably endearing _thing_ with his finger, the thing when he would wag his little index finger at whoever was unfortunate enough to have caused his ire and -

And he called himself respectable. A respectable, proper hobbit. Thorin almost smirked. If the elves and men and dragons and trolls - and Mahal only knew what other disreputable creatures the halfling chose to fraternise with when the king was not there to check him – of his acquaintance could only see him now; cheeks flushed, hands on hips, chin maddeningly resolute, golden curls Thorin ached to run his fingers through dancing in the firelight -  
   
“You will _not_ -” The king suddenly found himself looking down at a finger that was firmly poking his thoroughly unprepared chest ”- glare me into bending to your kingly will; you will not -” _another_ poke “- rob poor Dwalin of the bulk of his head guard merely for the sake of trotting beyond the Misty Mountains alongside a very, _very_ cross hobbit – who has _absolutely_ no need of being hobbit-sitted, thank you _very_ much, and -“ another very _pointed_ poke - "you will get it into your thick, rock-infested, majestic head that I have no _need_ of any treasure! Eru help me, Thorin, if you so much as put one gold coin into either saddlebag I will – “

* * * * * *

_Mahal_ , the hobbit was _touching_ him.

Touching. Him.

So what if it was merely a small, ridiculously repetitive appendage that the King was sorely tempted to set his teeth to and quite shamelessly nibble -

Bilbo was _touching_ him. 

It had taken an accumulation of all of his considerable will-power, self-restraint and a firm leash on his even more considerable temper to not stomp his way down the many corridors and hallways until he should reach the confounded door that gave way into the library and haul the halfling out of the same and into his arms and to not _beg_ him to not leave the mountain; to not leave _him_ ; for for all he was King and had reclaimed the home of his ancestors, for all the people returning to its halls, the gold and the jewels and the riches in its treasury, the thought of this one, single hobbit with his waistcoats and his elevenses and his tea and his handkerchiefs and his _smile_ that had, for some time, been doing things to the king´s equilibrium which he had taken very great care to firmly suppress until he found himself safely ensconced within his personal chambers, setting out for the kindly West, never to return - 

But he had no right. The hobbit may have forgiven his transactions while under the thrall of the gold, may have rushed to his aid during the battle that had almost cost the king his life and that of his precious sister-sons, had remained until the healers spared by the Elven King – Thorin had not deluded himself into thinking that their presence had been due to any other circumstance than the Company´s former burglar´s unsolicited intervention – had declared the Line of Durin free from risk, but he had never given Thorin any reason to suspect that all he sought from the newly crowned King under the Mountain surpassed the barrier of friendship. Not that he deserved even that but he was a dwarf and he was selfish and he was possessive and he would hold on to what little of this treasure of a – but that was beyond the point. Especially at this point. Because the point at this point was that he was _leaving_. The burglar was _leaving_. But apparently – and was it not enough that he had burst into the royal chambers without as much as by your leave (or giving Thorin even the smallest, remotest, obliging opportunity to prepare himself for the onslaught of tingling waves that insisted on forging their way through his body at the realisation that the hobbit was Within. Sight. Of. His. Bed. He had been tempted to bash his head against the nearest of the chamber´s thick, very much stone-constructed walls. Clearly the Valar had decided to punish him for every single one of his many failings thus far in his long life.) - not without embarking on one last, _pointless_ , hobbit-ish mission of negotiation and prevention.

And now he was touching him. Repeatedly. With that little finger of his.

* * * * * *

“Burglar.”

Bilbo was busily and determinedly engaged in pointing out to the dwarf that, proper, respectable gentle-hobbit or not, he had no tolerance for high-handedness, be it kingly or otherwise, when he felt the low rumble of the king´s voice in the resisting surface that he had just favoured with a particularly insistent, well, poke.

He paused, having been about to retrieve his appendix from the rock-hard confection (really, it was nothing short of astonishing that he had not broken it at this point. Well, yes. But sprained, most definitely. Or bruised, at the very least. Thorin´s chest was – all sorts of things a self-respecting hobbit had no business contemplating, thank you very much.)

The hobbit looked up from underneath curly lashes, clearly not pleased with the interruption, or so the purse of his lips signalled, the finger still firmly attached to the King´s sparsely clothed chest.

“Yes?”, he prompted, as no further communication was forthcoming; a hint of annoyance in his tone. Really, he would much rather continue informing the silly, stubborn, _arse_ of a dwarf of what exactly he thought of - 

“You are touching me.”

* * * * * *

The hobbit stared, momentarily stunned.

Then his Tookish side decided to take over. And oh, did it have things to say. Because - 

Seriously?

Really, really _seriously_?

 _That_ was what Mr King under the Mountain of Non-Existant Attention Spans had deigned to focus on during the course of his lovely, speaking, he-could-see-Bungo Baggins-shake-his-head-at-him-in-silent-disapproval rant of a clarification? That he had been _touching_ him? If Bilbo had wanted to touch him the dwarf would have noticed it! Not that he did not want to touch the dwarf. In fact, he very much wished to touch the dwarf. But there went that Point again and he really, truly was fed up with that Point becoming such a bothersome nuisance! Touching. Now, really -

* * * * * *

“No, I´m _not_.”

The dwarf quirked a brow, his head at last raised from the offending culprit, if only for a moment. Oh, so he had decided to take to obstinacy? His majesty would be in for a surprise then. No-one outdid a hobbit when it came to obstinacy, especially not this hobbit; this hobbit who again felt the stupid tug near his collarbone faced with just _that_ expression on the King´s painfully handsome face - and Thorin Oakenshield was going to learn that! 

“That, your majesty, is a _poke_.” The hobbit kept his tone decidedly even, and if he emphasised certain aspects of the communication, with physical assistance, it was merely done so as to leave no room for any misunderstanding. Naturally.

Unfortunately, there was even more to be said about dwarfish obstinacy – or it may just have been a speciality of any members of the Line of Durin – or so Bilbo found. And he had considered himself quite an expert on certain dwarfish idiosyncrasies, having been both a student and victim of some of the finer examples during all those months on the road. 

The king had crossed his arms in front of his abused chest – and did not the hobbit know that posture all too well!

“A touch.”

“A _poke_ ”.

The king growled, advancing towards the hobbit, who had retreated a few steps, almost crowding the smaller being against a wall.

“A _touch_ , hobbit.”

Bilbo barely resisted a roll of his eyes. Really, why did he have to fall for this most exasperating, tiresome, intractable, arrogant, abominable, altogether overbearing, cloth-headed epitome of an irresistible dwarf? It was a very good thing that he was leaving. Yes. Very, very good. His silly little hobbit heart that had started to thump almost violently in his chest at the sudden proximity of the one he held most dear in all of Middle Earth simply did not know what it was talking about. And it was not the only one. Well then, if he insisted -

* * * * * *

The dwarf froze.

There was a hand on his chest.

It was a soft, decidedly undwarven hand and it had been placed on his chest.

The hobbit had put a hand on his chest.

 _His_ hobbit had put a hand on his chest.

That most certainly did not mean that the king was in any way closer to acknowledging that the previous _touches_ had been _pokes_ but -

Bilbo´s hand was on his chest. More precisely, it was on that part of his chest that was commonly known to hide an organ which, much to the dwarf´s consternation, had adopted an unfortunate propensity to _flutter_ whenever exposed to the small creature it was currently being exposed to. 

He was conscious of the halfling rambling on about some sort of difference or other between _poking_ and _actual touching_ and would Thorin have the goodness to kindly come down from his insufferably high pony and concede that the hobbit had not been guilty of any such improper pursuit as _touching_ and placing his hands where they were clearly not wanted and - 

The dwarf´s head shot up.

* * * * * *

Blue eyes met very wide, shocked hobbit eyes.

The hand was immediately retracted – or would have been had it not instantly been subjected to a firm, unrelenting dwarven grip.

The hobbit found himself in a state of sudden panic. Oh Eru, how could he have alluded that – this was not good. Not good at all. He snapped his mouth shut and pulled. Once. Twice. A third time.

To no avail. Oh for Yavanna´s sake, must the dwarf -

“Bilbo,” Thorin began softly, and the hobbit, who had been about to glare at the dwarf in the hope that it should prompt him into releasing his poor, stupid, unreliable limb, so that he would be able to collect the same, together with the remains of his dignity, and bid the king something hopefully at least remotely resembling a good evening, looked up and nearly trembled at the searching look he met with in the proud dwarf´s eyes.

He gulped, his voice suddenly deciding it would be a very good idea to try itself at a near-choke.

“I must leave, Thorin.”

The grip had decided it was not at all in any sort of anything close to a relenting mood.

“Why must you leave?”

 _Why_ \- Now, really! He was about to have a coronary. Or at the very least a lovely, prolonged, unashamedly dedicated bout of hysterics. Of all the questions the dwarf had to put before him, and in that unfairly deep, rumbling, toe-curling, low voice of his! Moreover – oh. _Oh._

* * * * * *

There really was no point in denying the tenderness - and was that _longing_? - in the dwarf king´s eyes. He had, of course, seen them softening towards those nearest to his heart – his nephews, and more often than the proud dwarf would probably willingly admit to even when interrogated, but that was not the point. No, the point was …

The point was that Bilbo Baggins would never have dreamed that such a look would ever be directed at him. The point very much was that Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King under the Mountain, was looking at Bilbo Baggins, a mere hobbit of the Shire, as if he had suddenly disposed of his waistcoat and his suspenders and his hairy feet and the curls on his head... and had turned into the Arkenstone. Oh, The Point was that -

* * * * * *

Thorin abruptly found himself without a hobbit pleasantly close to his body. He frowned, looking over to where the very same hobbit, who had wrenched himself from the king´s grip and had put an unwelcome distance between their beings, could now be seen tapping a hairy foot, arms crossed, an expression of extreme irritation on his flushed face.

“Bilbo?” The King began questioningly, taking a puzzled step nearer.

Which, upon retrospection, had clearly been the wrong approach.

For the hobbit was -

“Don´t you _dare_ “Bilbo” me, Thorin Oakenshield!” the hobbit snapped, arms suddenly flailing about wildly. “For _weeks_ you had not the courtesy to grant me more than the barest minimum of your kingly time, mostly restricted to what I am still not quite certain were semi-polite acknowledgements of my existence in mere passing, you seemed to have miraculously forgotten that I had been blessed with not only one but two names at the time of my birth – and I´ll _thank_ you to finally comprehend that I am not _half_ of _anything_! - “ He waved the protest the king was about to make off with a flick of a small hand. “And then all you see fit to trouble yourself with in connection to my finally convincing my entirely, stupidly misguided, stubborn heart of the _pointlessness_ of placing its hope on the off chance that somewhere among the many rocks in your head you would eventually grasp the really not at all difficult to comprehend fact that I. Do. Not. Wish. To. Leave. You! is to make sure that I would make an utter, complete spectacle of myself returning to Bag End with a convoy in tow such as would induce any self-respecting hobbit to assume I had taken leave of the remains of my senses – and let me assure you, my having trotted of with 13 dwarves, a wizard and on the back of a blasted pony will have given rise to precisely that speculation from the outset! - _and_ to attempt to force me into travelling with an amount of gold that would promptly attract the undivided attention of goblins, thieves and relatives alike (do you even _realise_ that all my silver spoons will be gone, courtesy of my _loving_ cousin Lobelia, when I return?)!” Bilbo stopped short, paused, took a fortifying breath, and then went on, his eyes properly blazing at that stage, small chest heaving - “But, _no_ , all of a sudden, _you_ , Thorin Oakenshield, King under the _Mountain_ of _Stupid_ , _you_ – _umph_!”

* * * * * *

Thorin was kissing him.

Thorin was most certainly, definitely kissing him.

And Eru, Thorin was kissing him in an entire Thorin-ish manner, which was to say unexpectedly soft, bearded, slightly chafed lips seemed very much bent on completely devouring the poor hobbit on the spot and all that Bilbo´s brain, which was rapidly turning into mush, was just about capable of doing was to remind him to hold on for sheer life, if he possibly could and... 

And if he quite lost himself in the demanding, searching, possessive, knee-weakening, tender, loving, hungry, _shattering_ kiss no-one needed to know about it. 

And certainly not that he may have responded just in kind. 

And had no immediate intention of stopping. Not when finally provided with the perfect excuse for running his small hands through the thick, silken, raven mane. Repeatedly. And to great effect. Apparently. Or so the groan against his wonderfully preoccupied lips would suggest. 

Well -

* * * * * *

A great many minutes and thorough explorations later, Bilbo found himself sagging against the dwarven form before him, the corners of his soundly abused mouth moving slowly upwards into a cheeky little smile.

“I suppose I shan´t be leaving the mountain any time soon then.”

A low chuckle that could have been mistaken for a huff rumbled through the heated surface the hobbit had been firmly tucked against, his curly head resting snugly below a bearded chin. 

“You could have said, you know,” came the slightly mulish, accusing response to the insinuation.

Thorin sighed, strong arms tightening their hold as Bilbo felt the pressing of a kiss atop his golden curls.

“So could you, my hobbit.”

 _His hobbit_ pressed his nose into the now rather deliciously rumpled tunic. He felt rather proud of himself, if only for the simple fact that it was still on its wearer´s person. At that point. Which was the point at that point. And quite another point for – another point. Thank you very much.

“A Baggins never invites himself.”

The king lent back at that, blue eyes focusing on the gentle, courageous, impish, beautiful creature before him; letting his arms travel slowly, reverently down those of his burglar´s; two rough, calloused hands eventually reaching up to gently cup a smooth, beardless face.

“Stay,” Thorin begged softly, earnestly; touching his forehead to that of his One.

* * * * * *

When Dwalin took to cuffing the back of a princeling-head whenever he felt a particular vein on his hard, tattooed, bald head in imminent danger of bursting – Fili and Kili embraced the news of their uncle _finally_ having stopped _moping_ over their former burglar and having taken measures to ensure they should never be hobbit-less within the mountain anymore with all the to be expected Durin enthusiasm – and more - nobody thought to reprimand him. 

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is written solely for personal enjoyment, none of the characters are owned by me.


End file.
